


blood on my shirt, heart in my hand

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avenger Clint Barton, Canon-Typical Violence, Danger Kink, Deaf Clint Barton, Despite The Tags It's Mostly Soft, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), POV Clint Barton, Past Clint Barton/Jessica Drew - Freeform, Recreational Drug Use, Sex Worker Bucky Barnes, Smoking, Some Peculiar References To A Certain Character That Doesn't Appear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21888136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: Sadie smiles briefly and then shrugs.  “You did it for Cara that one time.”“I gave Cara a hundred bucks to take a nap in my bed,” Clint says. “I told her I had somnophilia and then just let her stay there for a few hours while I did a crossword.”In which Clint picks up a local sex worker and then decides to keep him. (Or more accurately, Bucky decides to keep Clint.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 120
Kudos: 670
Collections: Marvel Trumps Hate 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GreyishBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyishBlue/gifts).



> Here it is! I'm sorry for the wait @ Bobbi, but here it is! I hope I've done it justice? That being said, this fic was originally a couple of snippets on Tumblr - [here](https://shatteredhourglass.tumblr.com/post/188577514886/angrydollface-submitted-18-23-winterhawk-sadie) and [here](https://shatteredhourglass.tumblr.com/post/188425879126/17-23-winterhawk) \- and it's been extended into a fully-fledged story. Make sure to check out my Tumblr for more snips!

“Aw, shit,” Clint says. “All of them?”

“Yes,” comes the reply from the counter. “Every box. New stock comes in on Tuesday.”

Clint gives the freezer another despondent look - mostly directed at the empty space where the tater tots should be - and then turns away to find the instant noodles instead. They’re going for a bargain price, at least, and he only takes _half_ of what’s on the shelf because he’s not an animal.

A jar of kimchi also ends up in his basket because Kate keeps sharing her grandma’s food and Clint gets cravings when she’s away. He’s just going to eat it raw, but there’s a tiny bit of effort there. He hasn’t actually bothered with making a grocery list so he sticks with the essentials; microwavable food, toilet paper, and a six-pack of the shittiest beer he can find.

“You look like shit,” Mrs Chen informs him as she’s scanning over his stuff.

“Thanks,” Clint replies blandly, passes her a stack of bills. It’s more than the food’s actually worth, but he doesn’t really care. She takes it without complaint and Clint rubs at a bruise on his cheek. “The store’s looking a lot better. I wouldn’t have traded in San Francisco for Brooklyn, though.”

“It was time for a change,” she says, throws in a packet of breath mints on top of his shopping. Clint lets her. He knows who’s in charge here, and it certainly isn’t him.

“Sometimes I think I need a change too,” he replies before he leaves.

The night air is cold on his skin and he’s really wishing he’d worn a jacket now.

Then again, he’d barely collected the effort needed to get food at all, so being cold is probably the better outcome. He gets a better grip on his bag and glances around the darkened street. There’s people crowding the nearby cafe, walking along the cycle path. It’s pretty busy, being a Friday night, so he turns at the street sign that’s been spray-painted with a cartoon picture of a cat.

Here, there’s no swarm of chattering people. It’s kind of gloomy, if he’s honest, but he keeps going, turns at the next street.

A couple of people standing there turn when he rounds the corner. Clint wants to buy them all jackets too, but that’d be counterproductive for their line of work.

One of them is wearing what looks like a glittering purple bikini and Clint has a brief flashback to his circus days before he recognizes her.

“Hey, Clint,” Sadie says as she clacks over to him on too-high heels. The bruise on her shoulder is fading and Clint does a quick, not-at-all subtle once-over to make sure there’s no new ones.

“Hey,” he answers. “Everyone good?”

Kate thinks it’s funny that he spends his free time checking up on the local sex workers. Bobbi thinks he just wants to sleep with them all. Jessica just sighs when it’s brought up. Natasha doesn’t know because he’s fairly sure she’d make him stay out here all week instead of checking up every now and then. 

“You scared off the asshole with the gun,” Sadie says cheerfully. “Business has never been better.”

“I’m glad,” Clint replies and she wraps her arms around his shoulders and kisses his cheek, waxy makeup smearing on his face. She’s warm, if nothing else, so he accepts the hug and sets his free hand against the small of her back. It’s a half-hearted attempt at hugging back, but he’s doing his best.

“There’s a new guy,” she whispers in his ear. “Long hair. He’s kind of terrible at this, hasn’t gotten any buyers in a week, but he won’t take charity.”

She draws back and Clint blinks at her. “Are you asking me to- ?”

Sadie smiles briefly and then shrugs. “You did it for Cara that one time.”

“I gave Cara a hundred bucks to take a nap in my bed,” Clint says. “I told her I had somnophilia and then just let her stay there for a few hours while I did a crossword.”

It was a pretty fun crossword. Oh, god, he’s turned into an old man. He’s too young for this.

“Don’t think that’ll work with this one,” Sadie answers, looks hopeful. “Please.”

He sighs and thinks about his kimchi, wonders if he can get the guy to feed him before they get down to the dirty. Maybe he can make the feeding part of the sex? Wait, no, that’ll be messy. Clint’s too lazy to bother with washing his goddamn sheets on a Wednesday.

“Fine,” he says, and she doesn’t quite jump for joy but he can tell she’s close.

Sadie tips her head to the left and Clint heads that way with some resignation. He’s got a few hundreds in cash under his copy of _Dragonology_ for emergencies like this.

The guy leaning up against the wall isn’t even trying to look like the others on the block. He’s wearing a leather jacket and black pants that look painfully tight, gloves on his hands like it isn’t a million degrees in the summer night. His hair’s masking half of his face and he’s hunched over in a way that would give Clint a backache.

“Hey,” Clint tries.

No wonder no one wants to sleep with him.

The guy glares at him. It’s a full-blown murder stare, promising a harsh death if Clint pisses him off, and Clint - in true Barton fashion - kind of wants to piss him off just to see what happens. He’s kind of stupidly pretty, blue eyes and a jaw that could cut diamonds. 

Bobbi’s wrong. He doesn’t want to sleep with any of the sex workers he watches over. Clint has a habit of falling hard and fast for people who won’t feel anything back. He knows it’s the worst kind of situation for that. He’s just here to help and then go back to his normal routine of eat, sleep, fight, repeat.

He’s going to regret this.

He’s going to regret this so much.

“How much?”

“Home sweet home,” Clint announces.

His companion is silent. Clint drops his bag on the counter and finds the beer, shoves it into the mess that is his fridge. He should probably clean it at some point. Was that cheese _supposed_ to be blue? He can’t remember. Should make an effort to eat a piece and find out. Instead he grabs the only bottle of water in there, unscrews the cap and takes a swallow before he glances at the guy again.

The - “What’s your name again?”

“James.”

“Don’t use your real name in this business,” Clint says with a wave of his hand as he offers the water. The guy shakes his head and then frowns at Clint. He’s got his arms crossed over his chest defensively, but it doesn’t do anything to hide the muscle underneath the three layers of shirt.

“Fine. Bucky.”

Clint nods acquiescently and the guy - _Bucky_ \- goes back to staring at his apartment. It’s kind of funny, really, except that Bucky looks like he’s never seen such a mess in his life. The aura of offense when those remarkably pretty eyes land on the pile of pizza boxes get even stronger and Clint has to push down the urge to laugh. So his apartment’s a shithouse. He knows. At least it has personality.

Bucky seems to lose interest in surveying his place after ten minutes and by then, Clint’s set the water down and started hunting around for his wallet. How did it take him only _ten minutes_ to lose a wallet? No wonder Nat makes so many jokes about leaving him unsupervised. He opens the fridge again and oh, _there_ it is, next to the cheese.

“What did you want?”

“You do blowjobs?”

Bucky frowns at him, briefly. “I could’ve just sucked you off in the alleyway,” he says.

“I guess,” Clint agrees easily. It is a nice image. That makes Bucky look wary, his vaguely casual stance dropping into something much more defensive, so he quickly adds on a reason beyond _you looked cold and it’s a good excuse to get you indoors for a half hour_. “I had to put my groceries away. Food before sex.”

“Mm,” comes the reply, and Bucky _does_ relax a tiny amount when he sees Clint stacking the boxes into a cupboard haphazardly. Now they’re in better lighting Clint can see exactly how buff he is. It’s an eyeful, for sure.

Sadie was right about him being a new guy. There’s no way someone with _that_ amount of muscle was originally a sex worker. It’s not even useless pretty weight like those guys that are always at the gym - he stands the way that Natasha does when she forgets to act like a person.

Like he’s a weapon just waiting to go off, and that shouldn’t be attractive. It isn’t attractive.

Except that it _is_ , and now Bucky’s looking at him weird. God, he’s embarrassing.

“You done with your groceries?”

“I guess,” Clint answers noncommittally.

He’s not expecting to be shoved up against the kitchen counter.

The movement isn’t rough but the grip on his hips is secure and Clint’s too surprised to make any attempt at breaking the hold anyway. He doesn’t think he’s in any danger regardless - although it’s hard to tell, considering the way that Bucky’s keeping him still.

Then hands are unzipping his pants and shoving them down his thighs. Clint’s not a shy man - a _lot_ of people have accidentally seen his dick - but this is pretty abrupt even for him. Luckily his eggplant-printed boxers are pretty disarming, and Bucky looks down at them with an expression that he can’t read.

“They’re comfy,” Clint says defensively.

Bucky doesn’t answer him, just huffs out a breath that might be unimpressed and yanks Clint’s boxers down as well. It’s not what he’s expecting, this kind of dramatic laser-focus on him. Bucky looks more like he’s going into a fight than giving a blowjob. Clint has the same sort of feeling he gets when there’s a gun pressed against his skull and there’s some kind of dark, dangerous thrill at the thought.

Jesus, he’s fucked.

“Condom,” he says when Bucky’s breath washes hot over his dick. It comes out breathy and useless, takes a lot of effort for him to collect his thoughts enough for even a single word, but Bucky gives him a considering look and then pulls out a wildberry flavoured one from _somewhere_ and rolls it on in a deft movement.

Clint’s already half-hard just from the brisk touch. He’d been planning food and a nap and that idea’s gone out the window _entirely_ as Bucky’s stubble rasps against his thigh, wet mouth brushing bare skin. It’s so far out the window that it’s taking a holiday in Bucharest, and oh god Bucky looks like he’s _enjoying himself_.

He’d assumed that Bucky might be awkward at this. He’s wrong. He’s very, _very_ wrong, and now he’s pinned up against a kitchen counter while the hottest man he’s ever seen sucks his dick like the wildberry flavour _doesn’t_ taste like latex.

Clint’s not sure he’s allowed to touch so he just grabs for the counter behind him blindly, unwilling to take his eyes off of the sight in front of him for even a second. Bucky grasps the base of his cock with one gloved hand and Clint’s pretty sure he didn’t have a thing for leather before now but he’s got it now.

Bucky also does not have a gag reflex, as it turns out, and as he slides down with ease, Clint’s pretty sure he’s going to be thinking about this for the rest of his life. He’s going to take the memory of the wet heat of Bucky’s mouth to his grave.

Bucky finds a rhythm pretty easily and Clint’s just holding on for the ride, trying not to get too loud. It doesn’t work. Clint’s not a quiet person usually and this is really stretching his limits. From what he can tell Bucky doesn’t seem to mind his little hitching moans. He slows down briefly like he’s trying to draw this out. Clint’s legs might be shaking, he can’t really tell over the overwhelming rush of sensation.

“I’m- fuck,” he says, and he’s so turned on he can feel it in his _teeth_. “Please.”

Clint’s gripping the kitchen counter so hard that it creaks under his aching fingers. Bucky’s eyes are on his face then, intent and dark, and if Clint had thought he was pretty _before_ it’s an entirely different beast when he’s got his lips wrapped around Clint’s cock.

It’s the look on his face that finally makes Clint shudder and come. He’s not sure how long it lasts, but Bucky doesn’t pull away until he’s about to collapse from overstimulation, and when his knees unlock Bucky just keeps him held up against the counter with one hand. His lips are wet with spit and red with use, and it’s just- _fucking hell_.

Bucky licks at his lip again, glances up at Clint’s face. Whatever expression he’s making earns him a slight frown. “What?”

“I think you sucked my brains out,” Clint blurts out, too honest.

It’s stupid. _He’s_ stupid, but he still gets a soft huff of laughter anyway and a little proud smirk. Clint can’t even begin to pretend this was purely for Bucky’s benefit anymore. Bucky’s still sitting comfortably on his knees and Clint can see he’s hard in those ridiculously tight pants.

He wants to do something about it. He’s about to offer to do something about it, and then there’s a sharp bang and a clatter from somewhere on the fire escape.

Immediately the dry amusement vanishes off of Bucky’s face and he stands up, although he still holds onto Clint’s hips for a few seconds like he’s not sure that Clint can stand by himself. Then Clint blinks and he’s got that wary look on his face again, the tension visible in every inch of his body.

“I need to go,” Bucky says.

“Okay,” Clint answers easily, because he recognizes that sort of nervous itch, and then Bucky’s gone, out the _window_ of all things. The door’s right there - it’s still open, even. Oh well. Clint knows better than to question it and it’s not like he _can_ when Bucky’s left anyway.

He stays still for a minute, catching his breath, and then he gives up and sits down on his ass on the kitchen tiles.

“Who are you dating now?”

“What?”

Natasha gives him a no-nonsense stare over her thick-rimmed glasses and steals the last waffle from his plate. Clint gives it a despondent look and pulls his mug a little closer in case she decides she wants to steal his coffee as well. She’s dressed as an accountant today, or maybe a lawyer - some kind of severe businesswoman, grey and white with a drab brown wig.

It’s unsettling.

“You’re dating someone,” she says, with all the confidence of a person who’s been a spy since she was five. “Is it Carol? I told you she had feelings for Maria Rambeau, you’re setting yourself up for failure.”

“It’s not Carol and I’m not dating anyone,” Clint replies blandly. The barista has put some kind of spice in his coffee and he’s not sure what it is but he’s hoping it’s cinnamon and not poison. Knowing his luck, it’s probably the latter, but he keeps drinking it anyway.

Natasha does a thing that would be an unattractive squint on anyone else. On her it just looks suspicious and Clint keeps his face carefully blank, expression more bored than anything else. He’s been playing this game with her for years and sometimes he wins - and he’s not lying, after all. He _isn’t_ dating anyone.

“The only time you’re in a good mood - a _real_ good mood, not the fake joker shit,” she says, “is either when you’ve got the dog, a pizza, or you’re getting laid regularly. I texted Kate and she’s still got Lucky, and you’re eating waffles.”

“From where I’m sitting, _you’re_ eating the waffles,” Clint answers.

They stare each other down long enough that the waitress comes and goes two times in case they’re ready to pay. Natasha sets down a twenty-dollar tip without breaking eye contact and Clint continues staring back at her. He realizes a second later that she hasn’t covered up her freckles with makeup. That’s different.

“If I went in your apartment,” Natasha says. “What would I find?”

“Pizza boxes, mostly,” Clint admits. “A few broken gaming consoles. A popped air mattress.”

“So I wouldn’t find any evidence of another person staying there?”

“Nope,” Clint says.

“Fine,” Natasha replies, crossing her arms over her chest. They stand up and Natasha starts walking in the direction of Bed-Stuy. Clint stays cool, tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and wanders along behind her. A bird screams overhead and he tips his head up to watch it fly away, thinks about the jar of kimchi he still hasn’t eaten.

He should eat that. Maybe that’ll be his plans for the afternoon.

Clint’s sure they’re heading for his apartment and when they stop at the street opposite, he keeps his expression impassive. Natasha turns around and stares at him again. He blinks at her and thinks about the cartoons on his television.

“Fine,” she says eventually. “Have fun babysitting Simone’s dog, then.”

She strides off down another street and Clint watches her with amusement for a few minutes before he heads inside.

Simone moved out months ago and he hasn’t heard from her _or_ the dog since then.

He must be getting better at lying if he can fool Natasha.

Clint’s _not_ dating anyone but the bluff had saved him from an awkward conversation about the state of his apartment. There’s no way he could’ve explained away the random boxes of condoms everywhere or the lube hidden in carefully strategic places, like under the couch cushions and in an empty peanut butter jar. Why does he have to be friends with spies?

He’s pretty sure that when Sadie suggested he help out the new guy, she had probably meant as a one-time thing and then Bucky would be on his own.

The first time had been a favour. The second time was _not_ , and neither was the third or the fourth.

Clint’s weak. He’s weak for attention and gentle, firm touches and people who look they can kill him with a look but _don’t_ and he’s weak for feeling good once in his godforsaken life, especially when Bucky looks like he positively _delights_ in slowly picking him apart. He’s weak for _Bucky_ , and he’s pretty sure that he pays too much but he feels like he needs to pay for the sex _and_ the privilege of looking at Bucky’s face.

It’s fine.

It’s just stress relief, and he’s helping someone along the way.

If he dies along that way because of the sex, well, hopefully Natasha won’t figure anything out.

“Evening, Clint,” Aimee greets.

He mutters something back and hopes it’s not entirely incomprehensible. It’s some sort of greeting, and Aimee’s used to him coming home at weird hours of the morning anyway. Clint looks blearily at the clock above her door and registers that it’s half past three. She should probably be in bed. He checks her over for bruises in case Ivan’s been back and she looks fine physically, although she casts a puzzled stare behind him.

“I saw the fight on the news,” she calls up to him as he stumbles up the stairs. “You did great.”

Clint grunts.

He _hadn’t_ done great. The villain of the week had decided to destroy the skyscraper he was sitting on and that would’ve been fine on its own, except he’d landed on a glass roof in his escape, crashed through it and landed in the middle of a fire. And that’s not reliving the fight itself, or that Tony had accidentally elbowed him in the face with one of those fucking gauntlets.

His nose is still crusty with blood. SHIELD had wanted a debrief and he hadn’t been released from the meeting room until two, and he’d only been freed then because the others had decided to leave and even if they’re ballsy enough to block his path, SHIELD can’t stop powered people.

Then he’d gotten out on the street and realized his wallet wasn’t in his suit.

It’s been a mess.

His apartment is unlocked, thank the gods - his keys were missing too, probably melted and gone in a nameless building in the middle of Manhattan. Clint kicks it open with one foot and stumbles up to his bedroom. He hasn’t turned any of the lights on and the only thing illuminating the room is the full moon outside his window, which he makes a disgruntled noise at.

He doesn’t acknowledge the person following him, but he doesn’t really need to. That’s part of the beauty, being comfortable enough to say _fuck it_ \- and what does it say about him, that he’s more inclined to relax in front of a sex worker than his friends and coworkers?

To be fair, most of his friends have never seen his apartment, and most of them have punched him in the face at least once. Bucky’s only interested in very light painplay, and mostly as a tease.

“This is a mess,” Bucky says.

“Mmhm,” he agrees absently.

Clint doesn’t know if he means the bedroom - and to be fair it’s pretty bad, because he’s been out on missions for most of the week and hasn’t had time to clean - or Clint _himself_ , because both are true. It’s a mess, he’s a mess, _everything_ is a mess and he’s exhausted.

“What do you want me to do for you?”

Clint makes an inarticulate noise instead of replying. He’s _tired_.

Clint tries to keep these things basic, easy for Bucky and simple for him, but he’s had a fucking _hell_ of a day and he can’t even work up the energy to think of something specific. Instead he just strips off the tattered remains of his shirt and drops face first on the bed. Every muscle in his body is aching and he just wants to lay down on his messy sheets and die in peace.

Bucky’s footsteps follow him anyway, pause by the bed.

Clint’s going to tell him to just go, even though he’s pretty sure he’s condemning Bucky to a night in the cold with no payoff, but then the mattress dips and Bucky’s fingers land on his back.

They’re warm on his bruised skin and he sighs, tries not to arch into it too obviously. Bucky just continues his easy exploration of the mess. Clint worries for a second that the blood is going to freak Bucky out, but if it does bother him he doesn’t give it away. Instead the skin-warmed metal digs into a sore spot under his shoulder and Clint bites the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t make a noise.

It feels _good_ , in a painful sort of way.

Clint’s always liked that edge but it’s usually something he wants in the bedroom more than anywhere else - they’re _in_ the bedroom, technically, but there’s no contact other than Bucky’s hands on his back. It feels oddly chaste despite all the other things they’ve done, and he muffles a groan into the mattress when Bucky presses hard on a particularly tense spot.

Bucky keeps kneading at his aching muscles until he’s boneless, still sore but relaxed with every inch of his body. Bucky’s hands are possibly magical. It’s the same single-minded focus he’s had through every blowjob and handjob, directed at something entirely different from the usual. Clint had been expecting him to _go_.

There’s no sound in the room except for the faint traffic outside and the little noises that Clint can’t quite hold back. Bucky doesn’t comment on it and Clint doesn’t want to acknowledge it, so the room stays quiet.

“You’ve got a few nasty cuts and burns,” Bucky says finally, tapping a finger against his spine. “They need disinfecting.”

Clint grunts. He doesn’t even remember how his _limbs_ work, how is he supposed to perform first aid? His muscles are just puddles inside his skin and he’s not getting up for anything short of the apocalypse. If he gets an infection and it kills him, well, then he has a good excuse not to get out of bed at all. 

Bucky just sighs at him - loudly, _pointedly_ \- and then gets off of the bed.

Good. He’s going to leave Clint to rot here in peace. The cuts on his back are still stinging. Maybe they’ll let him be shirtless for the funeral - if there would even be a funeral at all. There’s a rattling noise from the direction of the bathroom and Clint presses his face into his crumpled duvet a little harder, inhales shakily.

Fucking _hell_. When’s the last time he washed this thing?

The mattress dips again and then something cool and oddly slimy is being spread across a spot on his shoulder blade. It’s startling, but not even the slight edge of pain can convince Clint to move an inch, especially after Bucky’s effectively kneaded him into putty. Whatever is on Bucky’s fingers is soothing the stinging on his back, though, and that’s something.

He still makes a halfhearted groaning noise when Bucky lifts his hips easily to slide his pants down and off.

“Stop whining,” Bucky says. “Just stay still and let it happen.”

Clint thinks there’s a dirty joke there, somewhere, but it’s there and gone again before he can actually try to vocalize it. Oh well. Bucky can’t hear his vague train of thought, moves onto applying whatever he’s got onto a few spots on the back of Clint’s legs, careful and precise.

“How the hell did you get burns on your _ass_?”

Clint waves one hand in the air half-heartedly. “Skill. And practice.”

Sometimes he has to skid down a steep surface in a hurry and this time he’d slipped right in the effort of getting away from the fire. Bucky snorts and then there’s a faint crinkling sound. It’s some sort of packaging, Clint’s guessing - Doritos? No, it’s some sort of gauze, he’s an idiot - and then Bucky’s back to patching him up.

It’s not sexual. It’s _weird_ , is what it is, because even when he’s had worse days than this, the most he can hope for is that someone might bring him food. Kate had grabbed him into a hug about a month ago when a building had fallen on him because she’d thought he’d _died_ , and that’s about the extent of the prolonged physical contact he’s had lately.

It’s weird.

Clint doesn’t want him to _stop_ , is the worst part.

Time goes funny after that and Clint doesn’t realize he’s falling asleep until there’s a blanket being draped over his back and lips pressed to the spot under his ear. It’s nice. He’s probably imagining it though, because Bucky doesn’t like or doesn’t bother with kissing.

Bucky, who’s spent the morning fixing him up instead of doing his job.

“’m sorry,” he says, or at least tries to say. He’s not sure if it comes out as audible or coherent at all. This isn’t what Bucky had signed up for and as much as he’s enjoying it, it’s not exactly _fair_. Clint’s not awake enough to feel _truly_ guilty, but he makes an attempt.

“Go to sleep, sweetheart,” he thinks he hears Bucky say.

He _thinks_. It’s just as likely Clint’s hallucinating from that hit to the skull he’d taken. He doesn’t know why Bucky would even _call_ him that, but he tips his head to the side obligingly when Bucky’s fingers find his hearing aid. It’s a nice sort of hallucination and Bucky carefully removes the one from his left ear first, and then moves him to get the second.

The world fades into silence and he’s vaguely aware of a hand stroking down his spine.

He takes a breath to ask why it feels so _intimate_ over all the other things they’ve done and then he falls asleep instead.

“Hey, Clint,” Sadie greets.

Clint just offers her a wave and a distracted smile before he keeps walking, trying to juggle the bags of groceries he’s got. She doesn’t approach him, which means everything is fine. Everyone on the street has his cell number now to make things easier while he’s busy. (Busy with _Bucky_.) It was a mistake trying to pile all of the bottles of coke and other various liquids into the same worn-out tote bag.

It’s the only one he owns. He’d own _zero_ tote bags, but he got this one because Bobbi left it behind one day when there’d been an altercation with Juggernaut. It’s got a very fat bird on one side and while he’s not buying any more he _does_ love this one, and the very fat bird. It’s purple, and now he’s not sure if Bobbi didn’t leave it there on purpose.

Bucky’s leaning up against his usual wall with an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips - part of the aesthetic, Clint’s guessing, because he’s never seen Bucky actually _smoke_ the things. They make eye contact and Bucky pushes off the wall to fall into step with him as they head back for Clint’s apartment.

It should be strange that they’re this comfortable, especially with the gun that Clint knows Bucky has in his jacket. Luckily he’s never claimed to have a sense of self-preservation. The whole murderous look thing seems to be just how Bucky’s face is, anyway - some kind of resting homicide face.

“Do you actually _have_ any other clients?”

“Nope,” Bucky says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Just you."

Clint doesn’t question whether that’s by choice or not. He’s not sure he wants the answer, really, because despite the fact that Bucky is absurdly attractive, most of the guys that come by this street are looking for soft twinks or girls in miniskirts. Bucky’s an outlier and if he _is_ sticking with Clint because of that, clearly no one has taste anymore.

Clint snags the cigarette out of his mouth to halt that particular train of thought, pulls a lighter out of his jacket with his free hand and lights it. Bucky doesn’t protest even slightly, just rolls his eyes like he’s humoring him. Clint blows a stream of smoke in his direction.

“Why the high spirits? You looked like hell last week,” Bucky observes. “Thought you weren’t going to make it through the night. Kept snoring like a truck, though.”

“I’ve had worse,” Clint answers with a shrug.

Bucky looks mildly appalled by that, which - yeah, okay, fair enough. But that’s how it goes when you’re a human fighting aliens and supervillains and evil robots. Clint’s pretty sure he’s broken every single bone in his body at some point, a few nasty scrapes and burns weren’t going to keep him down. It’s his own mind that knocks him, a lot of the time.

He hadn’t had that problem when he’d woken up the morning after the fight.

Clint’s not saying it’s because of Bucky, but it _might_ have been because of Bucky.

“Hang on. You were watching me sleep?”

Bucky looks away. “Just for an hour. I wanted to make sure you were going to stay alive before I left. Corpse of an Avenger with my DNA all over the scene doesn’t look good.”

That’s sensible enough, Clint supposes. It’s not like the police would believe he was a sex worker anyway, not when he only fucks Clint and looks like a murderous assassin anyway. “You know I’m an Avenger?"

“No one else wears that much purple,” Bucky replies. “And you were wearing your suit last week, in case you forgot.”

“Oh,” Clint says.

Bucky leans over, snags Clint’s spare keys out of the pocket of his jeans.

He swings them around on one finger as they walk up the stairs, and Clint’s starting to get why Aimee would find Bucky’s presence weird. There’s only four of his friends who even know where his apartment is, and the rest of them think he hangs out in the Tower. Clint hasn’t been this comfortable being close to someone since - _Kate_ , probably, but that’s something entirely different.

“If you’re going to shoot at aliens you should probably wear something more than a t-shirt,” Bucky says as he’s unlocking the door. “Why _do_ you wear a shirt to fight aliens?”

“I dunno,” Clint answers honestly. “I used to wear a tunic. It had like, a skirt. Very freeing.”

“That’s worse,” Bucky retorts, holding the door so Clint can slip past with his tote bag of crap. Mrs Chen must be making _so much_ money off of him. Bucky locks the door behind him and Clint sits the bag on the kitchen counter and rummages around for the battered box of tater tots.

He places it reverently on the counter to marvel at it and quietly revels in that small victory. One box is still a win in his books. A victory snack is required. Clint stubs out the cigarette in the Black Widow ashtray sitting on the counter and finds a knife to pry open the box.

“Want a tater tot?”

“A ta- why are you cooking those _now_?”

“There’s a guy who buys them all like, five minutes after Mrs Chen restocks,” Clint explains as he tips them out onto a tray. Glorious, glorious potato goodness. “I’ve been waiting for months to taste a single tater tot in my mouth, Bucky, this takes priority.”

A slightly judgemental pause. “Couldn’t you just buy them from a different store?”

“Technically _yes_ ,” Clint says. “But I didn’t want to. Do you want some or not?”

Bucky sighs. “Sure.”


	2. Chapter 2

It’s not a date.

It’s _definitely_ not a date, even though Clint sources a bottle of wine from under the sink and they both have a glass. Even though they sit opposite each other in the dim lighting from the kitchen and somehow their legs end up tangled together underneath the creaky table. Tater tots aren’t date food, and Clint’s dumpy apartment is not an ideal date destination.

It’s _not_ a date, even though Clint looks at Bucky’s face as he’s laughing at a stupid joke and thinks he’d be okay with this, and just _this_ , for the rest of his life.

It’s still not a date. He’s just being weird because of what happened last week. It’s knocked him off-kilter, that’s all.

“So your back’s feeling fine?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, scratches at his hair and stands up to put the dishes in the sink. “The cuts are pretty much healed and I _think_ the burns are okay? It’s kind of hard to tell. I can’t twist around to check.”

He doesn’t hear Bucky come up behind him, only notices when Bucky’s fingers curl around the hem of his shirt. Clint lets him lift it up carefully, tries not to shiver when the cool air hits his exposed back. The injuries on his back have started healing, although there’s a smattering of bruises that are colouring nicely as well.

Bucky runs a fingertip over a spot where there’s still gauze and then brushes his knuckles down Clint’s spine.

That one feels more like he’s touching just for the sake of touching and Clint lets him, arches a little into the contact.

“It’s better than I expected it to look,” Bucky comments.

“What do I owe you for the mother-henning? Is there even a set price for that, I’ve never ordered it before,” Clint says.

His voice comes out a little breathy. Technically he hadn’t really ordered it last week either, but he doesn’t regret it in the slightest. Some part of him wants to get hurt on a mission again just for the phantom feeling of Bucky’s lips on his throat.

“It was nothing,” comes the distracted reply. “If I’d let you die, it would have cost me more.”

“Oh, so you’re investing in your cash cow.” Bucky’s voice sounds a little cautious, and Clint turns and offers him an easy smile so it’s clear he’s just kidding around. “Yeah. You did a better job than I’d have done, for sure.”

“You weren’t even trying to do anything about it,” Bucky says. “Of course I did a better job.”

Bucky does a better job at a _lot_ of things. Clint’s starting to think he sucked up all the competency in the world and absorbed it into himself, because Clint hasn’t found a single thing that Bucky’s been bad at beyond being a little inexperienced at the sex worker thing. And he’s definitely not bad at the sex itself.

“You’re pretty great,” Clint agrees when he remembers to say something out loud. It comes out as less teasing than he’d meant for it to be, the feelings in his chest creeping out into his voice without permission. He thinks it’s too obvious, too telling, but Bucky’s lips just curl up in a faint smile.

It’s softer than his usual smirks, and Clint’s heart twists a little in his chest. It’s not even that he’s so pretty Clint wants to cry - it’s that Bucky’s humoring him, that he’ll eat tater tots for no reason other than Clint asked him to, it’s that he decides he needs to fuss over Clint beyond what a normal person would.

Aw, feelings.

Although Bucky’s gaze has gone more serious and his eyes flick to Clint’s lips, then drag back up to his eyes in a remarkably obvious move. Clint decides to change gears to something that won’t make him think quite as hard.

“So it looks okay? I’m cleared for… more strenuous activity?”

Bucky looks briefly surprised by the abrupt comment and then he catches on, snorts at Clint. Clint’s self-control only goes so far and right now it’s taking everything not to cup Bucky’s face in his hands and kiss the living daylights out of him. He doesn’t, though. And Natasha says he’s too impulsive. What would she know about it?

As it turns out, he doesn’t _need_ the self-control. Bucky’s still got hands on his back and he uses them to pull Clint closer, close enough that Clint can see the flecks of grey in the blue of his eyes, and then _Bucky_ kisses _him_.

It’s softer than he expects. Bucky tastes like cheap wine and he’s still brushing his fingers feather-light along Clint’s sides. He’s left his gloves on the table and all Clint can feel is warm skin and cold metal. It feels _good_ , is the worst part, a slow heat that rises up from his toes. He’s got to touch, then, gets his own hands on Bucky’s muscled shoulders over three layers of shirt, tugs him so Clint can feel the warmth of his body pressed up even closer.

Bucky’s teeth graze his lip gently and Clint makes an embarrassing whine as he pulls back, far enough that Clint can see the pink on his cheeks.

“Next time,” Bucky says, voice soft. “Is that- is it okay? I don’t want to ruin… this.”

Oh fuck, here come the feelings again.

“It’s okay,” he answers automatically when the silence drags on and Bucky starts looking awkward. His voice comes out a little rough. Is this what they do now? Because Clint’s starting to like it a little _too_ much, even without the sex. “It’s- yeah, of course. Anything you want.”

Bucky smiles a little and the sex seems so very insignificant all of a sudden.

“You’re free tomorrow night, yeah?”

“Unless the villain of the week decides to ruin it, yeah,” Clint answers.

And that's that.

Somehow the gods smile down on Clint for just this one thing.

It doesn’t happen very often. The supervillains remain in whatever holes they’re lying in, and there are no random explosions, and none of the Avengers decide that infighting is a good idea for today.

He gets out of bed in remarkably high spirits and does his goddamn laundry for once in his life. That job then turns into fixing the beat-up washing machines and dryers in the basement, because Ivan was a fucking terrible landlord. Still, all his sheets are dryer-warm and soft when he finishes, so it’s not enough to dampen his good mood.

Clint doesn’t realize he’s whistling tunelessly until he gets a few raised eyebrows on his way back up to the apartment.

It doesn’t make him stop.

He doesn’t know what Bucky’s actually planning for tonight and he’s not sure that he wants to know. He’s not sure he _cares_ , because underneath the strangeness of this relationship he just likes spending time with Bucky. It’s still not a date - Clint’s not sure that he’s ever enjoyed a date the way he enjoys basking in Bucky’s attention, and what does that say about his admittedly dismal love life?

His phone rings and he doesn’t look at the ID as he picks it up. “’llo?”

“Did you upset the mob again?”

“Not recently,” Clint replies cheerfully. “Why, do I need to? What have they done now?”

Jessica makes a ‘hrm’ noise in the back of her throat. “You’re sure?”

“My memory isn’t that bad,” he comments. “What’s going on?”

“It’s nothing,” she answers finally. “Just some strange activity from the gangs around Brooklyn, nothing to get worked up over. They seem agitated about someone they’ve spotted on the streets near Bed-Stuy. I thought you might have upset them.”

“Nope,” Clint says. “I’ve been kind of boring lately, I’m not gonna lie.”

“I’m not sure I trust you,” Jessica says blandly. “But I’ll take your word for it this time.”

“When do you ever trust me,” he replies dryly. It’s not as cutting as he wants it to be - he can’t even force himself to get worked up over Jessica’s biting comments. There are better things to be thinking about, anyway. “I can check it out tomorrow night, see what’s going on. I have contacts in some of the groups. Happy?”

“ _Tomorrow?_ ”

“Tomorrow,” Clint agrees. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t really want to. “Did you need anything else?”

There’s a beat of silence where he thinks he’s going to be interrogated. He misses Kate. Kate never pokes into his private life the way that Jessica and Natasha and Bobbi do. Come to think of it, he hasn’t heard from Kate in a week. Clint doesn’t even know why Jessica still talks to him at all.

“No,” Jessica says finally. “No, I don’t need anything else.”

“Good,” he replies, hangs up.

He looks at the phone for a few long seconds and then fishes out a grey pillowcase from his bundle of linen. In a way, it’s a good thing that he’s not in an official relationship with Bucky. At least that way, there’s less of a chance that something will go horribly wrong and it’ll result in heartbreak. It’s not going to be like everyone else if it’s not dating.

He shakes off the bad feelings lingering around him and tries to find some pants that aren’t covered in blood or dirt, goes back to wondering if Bucky’s going to want to try the kissing-only thing again.

“There’s a door, you know,” Clint says as Bucky climbs in through the fire escape window. He does get a nice eyeful of those legs, though, so he’s not complaining too much.

“There is,” Bucky agrees. His hair’s askew - it looks like it was meant to be tied back at some point, but most of it has fallen out of the tie in messy waves around his face - and Clint’s fairly sure that his shirt is on backwards, which honestly sounds more like something _he_ would do. He puts his handgun down to rest next to one of Clint’s, which is the biggest surprise so far.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” Bucky says, throws his jacket over the couch. “Dandy.”

“ _Dandy_?”

Bucky gives him a dry look and Clint chooses not to tease him further. It’s still funny, though. _Dandy_. Bucky looks like he’s been walking around in a tornado and the _worst_ part is that he makes it work.

“Are you sure? Because you look like you’re in a bit of a hurry- uh,” and Bucky’s backing him up against a wall. It’s gentler than usual, but Bucky’s aiming that dark stare at him again and Clint’s knees feel a little shaky as his back hits the brickwork. They’re close enough that their noses are nearly touching and Bucky’s hands land on his hips.

“Do you know,” Bucky starts, just loud enough for Clint to hear, “how hard it was to keep my hands off of you last night?”

It's vaguely threatening. It's _hot_.

“You _didn’t_ keep your hands off of me,” Clint answers breathlessly. His own hands are braced on Bucky’s chest and he’s not sure when he started touching either.

“Didn’t touch you as much as I wanted to either,” Bucky replies. He’s half an inch from kissing Clint but he doesn’t come any closer and Clint can’t make himself move, and it’s a fucking _tease_. He very bravely doesn’t whine. “Walked the streets thinking about taking you apart.”

“Yeah?” Clint manages, and it comes out weak. He’s gone from thinking about soft lighting and kissing to soft lighting and kissing _and_ being pinned down on his freshly-washed sheets. Why does his dick think he’s a teenager again when he’s around Bucky?

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, finally leans in to kiss him.

It’s still soft. Still gentler than he’s expecting from Bucky, but it’s also _hungry_ , and Bucky’s keeping him against the wall and rubbing his thumbs up against the exposed strip of skin between Clint’s shirt and his jeans. Clint’s hopelessly gone for it - he wants this and he wants _more_ than this and coherent thoughts really aren’t possible when Bucky kisses like he does.

Bucky’s left hand slips down and ends up sitting firmly on his ass instead of his hip. Clint doesn’t know if it’s intentional until Bucky squeezes and then he’s _done_ , he needs more. Fuck it, it’s not like Bucky hasn’t seen it all before and he still seems to be attracted to it.

“Bed,” he says, muffled against Bucky’s mouth.

They’ve never actually bothered with the bed before now - other than the night Bucky had patched him up - always walls or the couch or memorably, the dining room table, but never the bed. They never slow down enough to even go upstairs at all.

Clint wants it to be slow, this time.

His thigh ends up hooked over Bucky’s hip as Bucky presses closer, trapping Clint between him and the wall. It’s nearly painful, making the effort to pull himself away from Bucky’s lips. He succeeds only by imagining what comes next.

“Please,” he says, quiet and pleading. “Take me to bed.”

Clint expects Bucky to move back so they can head up the stairs. He doesn’t expect Bucky to shift his grip and then just _lift_ him like Clint doesn’t weigh any more than a sack of potatoes. He’s also not expecting the hot kick of arousal in his gut as Bucky starts walking towards the bedroom.

“Oh god,” he manages to get out.

“Nope, just me,” Bucky replies in what’s probably the stupidest joke Clint’s heard in months, and the worst part is that he laughs too.

Clint hits the mattress with a muffled thump, nearly bounces off of it again. It’s nowhere near Bucky’s lethal grace but he doesn’t land on the floor, so he’ll take it as a win. His breath feels erratic and there’s not enough air in his lungs as Bucky shucks off all three shirts in one deft movement and tosses them on the floor.

Oh, that’s not fair. Bucky’s not allowed to be hot underneath all those layers as well, it’s bad for his health. Clint makes a little involuntary sound at the sight of the muscle and bare skin. He’s trying not to come off as completely incompetent but god, Bucky is unfairly attractive and he’s smiling at Clint like he’s Will Turner looking at Elizabeth Swann.

(Clint had spent his time after Bucky left last night watching Pirates of the Caribbean to distract him. It just made him think about Bucky as a sexy pirate.)

While Clint’s busy thinking about Bucky in knee-high boots and leather vests, Bucky’s getting on the mattress between his spread legs to push the hem of Clint’s sweater up his stomach. He presses a single kiss to the skin above Clint’s waistband and it’s so tender that he doesn’t know whether to be turned on or cry.

The rest of their clothes end up on the floor. Clint feels oddly privileged to see this much skin, runs his fingers over the messy scarring on Bucky’s left shoulder and then up to feel the scrape of stubble on his jaw. Bucky leans into it, nips at Clint’s fingertips when they get too close to his mouth.

Clint being Clint, he does it again just to feel Bucky’s teeth on his skin.

It feels like he shouldn’t be breathing, shouldn’t be doing anything to mess with this moment. The other sex hadn’t felt like this, and he’s still shellshocked by how much he wants Bucky right here in his bed all the time. It just feels _right_.

That’s a dangerous thought, though.

“Any requests?” Bucky’s voice is soft and full of promise. “What do you want?”

“I want _you_ ,” Clint says helplessly.

“You’ve got me,” Bucky answers simply, and Clint’s going to say something embarrassing if he doesn’t stop himself from talking _right the fuck now_.

He fumbles at Bucky’s back, tries to pull him closer and when Bucky moves he lays down flat and tugs at him again. Words are failing him right now but Bucky seems to catch onto what he’s trying to do anyway, edges up the bed until his thighs are on either side of Clint’s throat and his dick is hanging heavy and hard near Clint’s mouth.

It’s a fucking glorious dick. Clint’s briefly ashamed of himself for not getting around to this earlier, except he thinks that maybe he wouldn’t have _wanted_ it if it wasn’t for the way Bucky’s looking down at him, eyes dark and faint smirk on his face.

“Just gonna spend all night lookin’, huh,” Bucky says, but there’s a faint tremor in his voice.

“It’s a pretty good view,” Clint answers softly.

His own voice is doing that glaringly obvious thing where it goes fond and he curls his fingers around the muscles in Bucky’s thighs, gently squeezes as Clint takes the tip of his cock in his mouth. He tastes like skin and salt and Clint barely notices Bucky bracing himself on the headboard of the bed like even this is too much.

He wonders if anyone has done this for Bucky at all, how long it’s been.

Bucky’s hips jerk in a tiny aborted motion, just barely thrusting in and Clint feels hot all over. He’d been so focused on getting his mouth on Bucky that he hadn’t considered what Bucky would _do_. Clint tightens his grip on Bucky’s thighs and tries to get him closer, coaxing him into doing it again.

The next thrust is deeper, Bucky’s dick hot on his tongue and Clint can’t help moaning around it.

“Oh,” Bucky says, a little punched-out sound, does it again.

Clint feels like he’s on fire. Bucky’s thrusts get more confident, more fluid strokes of his cock until he’s brushing the back of Clint’s throat and Clint has to swallow reflexively or choke. It’s messy, more than anything - there’s spit on his chin and precome in his mouth and when he opens his eyes Bucky’s making a face like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen, teeth sunk in his lower lip and hand fisted in Clint’s hair.

It’s the hottest thing _Clint’s_ ever seen. Bucky’s thighs are shaking a little in his grip and Clint thinks that perhaps he would be more happy dying here.

“Clint,” Bucky breathes. “Do you have _any idea_ what you’re doing to me?”

Clint wants to make a witty reply but he only manages a needy-sounding whine as Bucky shifts back, dick slipping out of his mouth. He cranes his neck a little, tries to catch it again and ends up with his tongue just barely touching the tip. Bucky’s breathing hard enough that he can hear it.

“If you don’t stop that I’m going to come,” Bucky warns, but that’s a terrible reason to stop. What makes it _worse_ is the way Bucky’s started rubbing his dick against Clint’s lips, and it’s a tease but Clint’s still trying his hardest to lick him.

“Fuck,” Bucky says, pushes into his mouth again once, twice, and then he’s coming over Clint’s mouth and chin.

It takes Bucky a few minutes to stop staring at him. Clint’s not sure if it’s because of the come and spit or whether he’s making a stupid turned on face. It’s not his fault if he is - Bucky just _does_ that to him, and the face fucking certainly hadn’t helped the matter. Bucky makes a sighing noise and maneuvers himself off of Clint, sits down on the mattress instead and then turns to look at him again.

“Fuck,” he says again, scrubs a hand over his face. “I get why you’re always an idiot afterwards, now.”

Clint’s going to take that as a compliment. “We forgot the condom,” he croaks.

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “I can’t give you anything.”

“Huh.” Clint licks at his lower lip, stifles a self-satisfied smirk when Bucky makes a noise. “You mean we could’ve been doing it like this the whole time?”

Bucky leans back over to catch him in a kiss, doesn’t seem to care about the mess as he bites at Clint’s lip hard enough to sting. His hand curls around Clint’s dick, squeezes gently. Clint had kind of forgot he was hard until this moment, to be honest. His own arousal hadn’t seemed that important in comparison to sucking Bucky’s dick.

It seems pretty damn important now, though, and he can’t hold back the moan as Bucky’s teeth graze his throat, suck a mark into the skin. “Bucky, baby,” he manages. “If you don’t get me off I might cry, and that’s going to be really fucking unattractive.”

“Kind of want to see it anyway, though,” Bucky says, the words buzzing against Clint’s skin. “Roll over for me, yeah?”

Clint doesn’t even get the opportunity to roll over himself because he blinks and then Bucky’s flipped him onto his stomach. His dick rubs against the sheets and Bucky’s hands land on his back, drift over a spot that still aches when Bucky presses into it. He’s hopelessly turned on and the spike of pain just translates straight into pleasure.

He has no clue what Bucky’s planning here, just lifts his hips helpfully when Bucky’s hands end up on his ass. Being facedown on his knees gives him _ideas_ , but he’s still slow at connecting the dots as Bucky presses a wet kiss to his spine, drags his mouth down the bare skin.

Bucky’s tongue swiping across his rim nearly makes him sob.

His face feels hot. His whole _body_ feels hot, especially where Bucky’s holding onto his ass with cool metal fingers. Stubble rasps against Clint’s ass and he’s so oversensitive that he can’t do anything but press his forehead into the bed and gasp for air.

Bucky’s just as single-minded as he always is, licking in deeper until Clint’s trembling with the effort of staying on his knees. It’s so _wet_ , so messy that he feels like he's going to fall apart and he can still taste Bucky on his tongue as _Bucky’s_ tongue presses in him, slick and overwhelming.

“ _Bucky_ ,” he gasps uselessly, jerks when Bucky’s teeth dig into his ass briefly, the spike of pain making it worse. “I just- I need you to-”

As hard as he tries, he can’t finish the sentence because his brain refuses to process anything other than the shuddering waves of pleasure rolling through him. Bucky’s mouth drifts from his ass up to his spine, sucks and bites his way up until he’s got his lips pressed lightly on the back of Clint’s neck.

This close, Clint can feel that he’s hard again and that sends him into mild heart palpitations.

“I could fuck you,” Bucky murmurs. “Wanted to, the first time I saw you. When you brought me home I was hopin’ you’d let me get you all wet with my mouth and then just fuck you nice and easy until you cried.”

“ _Please_ ,” is all the reply Clint has to that.

Bucky’s close to getting what he wants in the crying department and Clint thinks briefly about being careful what you wish for. He’s so overwhelmed that he can’t even process what’s going on beyond where his skin’s on fire because Bucky’s touching him. His dick rubs against Clint’s ass and Clint’s attention switches to that abruptly, wonders if Bucky would just push in like this. He _wants_ Bucky to push in like this.

His breath hitches as Bucky’s hips roll again, sliding slick across Clint’s hole.

“You’d take it so pretty, wouldn’t you,” Bucky says, quiet and soft.

Clint tries to choke out an emphatic _yes_ but he’s too busy coming so hard he whites out. It starts in his toes and burns right up through his body, leaving him breathless and strung-out. He’s only vaguely aware of Bucky’s hands on him, realizes faintly that he just came without anything touching his dick except for the now-damp sheets underneath him.

He zones out for a while after that.

Bucky leaves and comes back with a wet cloth, rolls him over again to wipe at the mess on his stomach and the bedding. Clint could get used to being treated like this, honestly - the care, mostly, but he’s got a thing for Bucky manhandling him as well. He feels boneless and pliant, gets the feeling he looks more than a little smug when Bucky snorts at him.

“You alright there?”

“Mmhm,” Clint says, stretches his hands over his head. “C’mere, stop cleaning, you’re harshing my buzz.”

“Harshing your buzz,” Bucky mutters incredulously, but he’d said _dandy_ earlier so it’s not like he can judge Clint’s turns of phrase. He gets on the mattress as well, which is pretty nice, scratches soft at Clint’s scalp. It’s glorious, is what it is, almost as good as the sex. Clint arches up into the touch, lets out a blissful sigh.

They lay there in silence. Clint doesn’t know how long it lasts, he’s just enjoying the contact. Bucky’s warm and solid under the leg Clint’s slung over him and he’d be happy to stay here for a month without moving. He’s half-considering stealing another one of Bucky’s cigarettes, but that’s just encouraging bad habits. Also, then he’d have to _move_.

He’s not moving unless there’s a gun to his head.

“You act different. With the sex workers,” Bucky says eventually.

“Because I’m not an asshole? There’s plenty of good people out there who aren’t dicks to them, it’s just that the majority you see are sleazy businessmen cheating on their wives,” Clint reasons. He doesn’t want an award for it. He’s not some kind of saint, he just can’t look away from a fight for the life of him. “They deserve to work as much as anyone else does.”

The look he gets is more analytical than adoring, though. “Not like that. You’re not just protecting them because you’re an Avenger. You _get it_.”

Clint blinks, slowly.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to talk about it,” Bucky blurts out when the silence drags on. Now he’s thrown that out there he seems to be almost _ashamed_ of saying it in the first place. There’s a flush of embarrassment on his cheeks and he sits up hurriedly, reaches for his discarded pants. Clint catches his wrist before he can go anywhere.

“It’s okay,” Clint says. “I just- I wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

“I’m real bad at subtlety,” Bucky answers, and he still sounds chastened but he still lays down again so Clint can rest his face on that glorious chest.

His muscles are so warm and firm. Clint’s got muscles as well, he supposes, but he can’t exactly appreciate those the way he can with Bucky’s. Bucky’s fingers land on his spine, brush up and down his skin gently. It’s nice. When was the last time someone touched him that wasn’t for the purpose of kicking his ass? It feels like it’s been years. 

Bucky doesn’t stop petting him. He does speak again, though. “Was I wrong?”

“No. You were right,” Clint says. “You got me. Hawkeye used to fuck people for money. Don’t repeat that, actually, some people will think you’re talking about Katie- which, gross.”

“Don’t got anybody to tell,” Bucky replies easily, rubs his fingers over a bruise on Clint’s shoulder blade. The pain spreads out warm across his muscles and he sighs, shifts so Bucky can press into it harder. He doesn’t ask any more questions, but Clint gets the feeling he’s waiting for more information.

Clint sighs, rubs his cheek against Bucky’s chest.

“The circus didn’t make enough money,” Clint says. It’s easier when he doesn’t have to make eye contact. “Or at least, that’s what they told me. I didn’t know what they were doing back then, I was a stupid teenager. We needed money for my hearing aids, and for food and Barney’s- whatever.”

Barney’s drugs, Barney’s cigarettes, Barney’s beer stash. All the _important_ things that they needed to survive even though the circus had plenty of money, they just weren’t willing to spend it on a couple of kids they’d picked up in Ohio.

“How old were you?” Bucky sounds hesitant.

“Seventeen,” Clint answers. “Legal, at least. It wasn’t that bad. I mean- the sex work wasn’t bad.”

He still can’t quite say it out loud. That Barney had _used_ him. He couldn’t say it through the betrayals and the stealing and all the other ways Barney has fucked him - not literally, thank god - over the years, and he can’t say it for this either. It’s messed up. Barney’s still his brother, though, even if he is an asshole.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, starts stroking down his back again.

“It’s okay,” Clint replies automatically, even though it’s not. Mentioning Barney always makes him feel a little sick to the stomach. “I just- can you stay? For a little while?”

He isn’t expecting anything. Clint’s accustomed to the itch Bucky gets after he’s done what he came here for. Whatever this is, Bucky’s not required to stay and comfort him through the bad memories and Clint’s not going to judge him if he doesn’t.

Instead of walking away, though, Bucky just pulls him a little closer. “I can stay. As long as you want.” He probably shouldn’t offer that. Clint’s tempted to keep him forever, ply him with food and wine and sex in the hopes he’ll want to stay. 

It might have been a date.

“I can pay extra,” Clint says, barely audible.

“I’m not doing it for the money,” Bucky replies, gets a handful of Clint’s ass and squeezes gently. Clint’s heart skips a beat. “I didn’t - it’s not about that. None of it is about the money.”

Clint lifts his head to look at Bucky’s face blearily. “No?”

“I,” Bucky starts, looks a little lost. “I’ve done a lot of bad things to other people. I didn’t want to do it again. Needed something to do with myself or I’d go insane, though. Thought maybe I could do the opposite, make someone feel good for once.”

“Well, you’ve definitely succeeded there,” Clint answers, pats at his abs. Fuck, that’s nice.

“Guess I did,” Bucky agrees.

“Thank you,” Clint says and it comes out more heartfelt than he means for it to. He’s trying to stay awake so he can say more, tell Bucky how he’s been feeling like shit every day until he gave into Sadie’s request, how much it means to him that he gets to feel like a person again. He must say some of it, because Bucky makes a funny noise, but he falls asleep between one breath and the next anyway.

When he wakes up, it’s to an empty bed and silence.

Clint doesn’t mean to end up here on the streets at night, but Natasha’s noticed that something’s wrong with him and she’s annoyingly persistent when she wants to be. Chances are she’s lying in wait to ambush him at home, so his solution is not to go home at all. The only way Clint can avoid talking about the messy shreds of feelings in his chest is to avoid her entirely, and he doesn't want to go back to sheets that smell like Bucky anyway. It’s resulted in him sitting here, cold and alone.

It’s been two weeks.

Sadie takes a hit of her joint and sits down next to Clint where he’s staring vacantly out at the street, bow leaning heavy up against his leg. She straightens her skirt and delicately crosses her ankles and they sit in silence for a minute. Clint’s trying not to think about anything in particular. She offers him the joint without saying anything.

“I don’t smoke,” he says, takes it anyway. 

_Why the fuck not_ , he thinks. 

“For what it’s worth, I thought he really liked you,” she comments. 

“Clearly he didn’t,” Clint points out. It’s been weeks. There’s been no evidence of Bucky even _existing_ besides the lone sock hanging off of a purple lampshade and the mix of sad and vague emptiness Clint has been harbouring in his chest. A woman in a white Mercedes drives past, speeds up when she sees him sitting there. Good. They should be worried about him. 

“Guess I’m just another idiot that fell for a sex worker,” Clint mutters.

It’s so fucking _cliche_. It’s exactly the kind of thing he’d do, and the thing Natasha’s going to smack him for when she finds out. He’s an idiot.

Sadie pats his knee. “Plenty of brooding folks in leather around. How about Carmen?”

“I don’t want anyone else,” Clint says dismally. “I thought this was it. Maybe I’m just- destined to be alone or whatever.”

“You’re too cute to die alone,” Sadie says, upgrades to patting his face instead. Clint suspects she might just be enjoying the stubble on his cheeks because he hasn’t shaved in a week. 

“And yet it’s happening anyway,” he mumbles. Typical.

There’s a bang further up the road, someone running in their direction and Clint swings into action, pushes Sadie over the low wall they’ve been sitting on and ignores her surprised shout. There’s gunfire and normal fire and chaos, and he’s grabbing his bow and an arrow and aiming before he registers black leather and greasy hair, the kind of scowl that could only be one person.

“ _Bucky?_ ”

“We can talk about it later,” Bucky shouts at him. “Shoot them, Barton!”

Clint stares at him for a second longer. Bucky’s got a heavy-duty machine gun braced against his hip like it weighs nothing and he fires it at the trucks driving towards them, the bangs earsplitting and painful. His hair’s untied, falling around his face in a sweaty mess, and he looks like he’s still wearing the clothes he’d had on the last time Clint had seen him.

“I’m so fucking sorry about earlier,” Bucky adds, his voice loud over the gunfire.

Clint blinks real slow, looks back at the people advancing on them. Now he’s looking, he notices the Hydra logo on everything and that’s _not_ good. Bucky runs out of bullets in the machine gun, tosses it aside with a thunk and pulls out a handgun to continue shooting. There’s blood soaking through his pants and it’s not stopping him at all.

There’s too many Hydra agents for him to take on by himself, though.

There’s no reason to trust him. No reason to even give him a sideways glance, really, except that there’s every reason.

Clint turns his attention to the other guys and releases the arrow.

“This is a change,” Clint comments idly as he drops the bullet in the bathroom sink.

The wound is already healing up as he watches it but Bucky grimaces like it’s hurting him. For once, Clint’s got out of a fight with only a few scrapes and bruises. He’s still not sure if it was a win, though, because Hydra never really go away and he’s not relishing the idea of spending a whole week keeping an eye on the block every night. 

“You’re not hurt?”

“I’m not hurt,” Clint repeats, straightens up and heads for the kitchen. His bow’s sitting there, along with a few arrows he’d yanked out before the police had come along. He reaches for one that’s still got gore clinging to it, starts wiping it with a cloth. A few minutes later footsteps follow him, stop in the doorway. The silence feels distinctly tentative.

Clint doesn’t look up. “Beer?”

“...vodka?”

Clint shrugs, finds the bottle in the cupboard and pours some into a Elmo mug.

Bucky takes it with a quiet word of thanks as he sits down on the couch, and Clint nods. He doesn’t question the fact that Bucky knows he’s got a bottle put away there. He’s pretty sure Bucky’s canvassed the apartment more than once while Clint wasn’t watching him closely. Natasha’s just going to have to deal with some of her stash going missing.

Clint stays leaning up against the counter for a minute, shifts on his feet and just takes a moment to _look_ at Bucky. There’s a smudge of something that’s probably blood on his cheek and it’s stuck some of his hair to his face. His shirt’s ripped up and he hasn’t put his jeans on now that Clint’s got the bullet out. He looks like a _mess_ , in short.

Clint still wants to kiss him.

“I’m sorry I left,” Bucky says. “I thought they’d stopped following me and then I saw them on the street outside and you were sleeping and I just- needed to get rid of them. I didn’t want them coming near this. This is- it's not theirs to ruin.”

“It wasn’t… because of me,” Clint says blankly.

Considering the way Bucky had followed him home, limping a little, he’d guessed there wasn’t a grievous error on his part, but his self-esteem still insists he says it. He’s just _checking_ , but Bucky’s bewildered expression squashes any remaining doubts he’d had. 

“It wasn’t because of you,” Bucky repeats, sounds a little horrified at the idea.

Just the bad guys following him around.

Clint can understand that well enough, even if he doesn't like it.

“So I might be the former Fist of Hydra,” Bucky says with a wince. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I just-”

“I already knew,” Clint answers dryly, steals the vodka back and then sits himself sideways in Bucky’s lap, legs stretched out across the length of the couch. It puts him in the perfect position to rest his cheek against Bucky’s shoulder and oh, he’s _missed_ this. Why is the cold steel so comfortable?

Bucky pauses. Frowns. “How long?”

Clint huffs out an amused breath. “You know there’s museums everywhere with your face on them, right? And I work with Steve. Not to mention the whole metal arm thing isn’t exactly _subtle_.”

“Oh,” Bucky says eventually.

His hand ends up in Clint’s hair again and it feels like every inch of tension melts from Clint’s body at the touch. The sheer relief he feels makes him realize all over again how much he actually _likes_ Bucky, god. He wants this so bad. He wants _Bucky_ so bad. It’s not like Bucky’s identity had been a problem before now, even when they weren’t discussing it.

“I figured you’d say something when you were ready,” Clint says. “Was hoping it’d be _before_ you disappeared and gave me a fucking heart attack, though.”

“Didn’t know how to say it,” Bucky answers. “Didn’t want you to send me back to Steve, either.”

Clint sits up a little straighter so he can look at Bucky’s face properly. Oh, that’s not _fair_. He can’t be pretty while covered in blood too. Clint tries to focus. “Where you go is your choice, I’m not Hydra. You can do whatever you want to do and I’m not going to judge you. I just like a heads-up.”

“Huh,” Bucky says. Pauses for a beat. When he speaks again there’s something more confident in his voice, although just barely. “You gonna judge me if I try to kiss you again?”

“I might,” Clint says, because even if Bucky had a reason to disappear he’s still not happy about it. “You owe me one, by the way.”

“I think I can handle that,” Bucky answers easily, cups Clint’s cheek in his hand and tugs him down.

“Morning, ladies,” Clint greets cheerfully.

Natasha doesn’t put her gun down. Jessica’s just got her hands on her hips, like she didn’t jump half a mile upon entering the coffeeshop. Bobbi’s looking at him like she thinks he’s gone off the rails at last. Clint gives them all a slow, easy smile and reaches for a blueberry on his half-empty plate of waffles, pops it into his mouth.

“What is _that_ ,” Jessica says finally.

“Waffles,” he informs her, tries very hard not to smirk.

He doesn’t say a word about the warm lap he’s currently sitting on, picks up his coffee and settles himself more comfortably against Bucky’s chest. Bucky’s got the metal arm curled around his stomach - _under_ his shirt, fingers pressing into his hip - so he doesn’t fall onto the floor again and upset the employees, and he’s deliciously warm.

“When you said I owed you one, I wasn’t offering to be shot,” Bucky says in a low voice.

“They’re not going to shoot you,” Clint says, twists around to press a quick kiss to the line of Bucky’s jaw. Bucky’s lips tick up in a barely-there smile and Clint pets his face carefully, enjoys the scratch of stubble against his palm. He’s got stubble burn in other places too - _excellent_ places, and he’s intending more of it once he’s done terrorizing the nosy women in his life.

“You know that’s the Winter Soldier, right? You didn’t hit your head?”

“He cooked my tater tots,” Clint says cheerfully. “You didn’t even do that when we were _married_.”

There's a few long minutes of silence as they process what's going on. Clint is so smug that it feels like there should be a sign over his head.

Bobbi scoffs and starts walking away. Jessica is doing a classier approximation of a facepalm as she follows out of the front door, but Natasha lowers her gun and sits down across from them. When Clint looks closer, there’s a hint of a smile on her face. She gestures for the waitress to come closer so she can order a coffee and then she folds her hands neatly in her lap and leans back in her seat.

“I hope you know I will need a very thorough explanation of _this_ ,” she says with a wave at how they’re sitting.

“It’s going to take a while,” Clint replies, flaps a hand in the air. “It all started when that bastard from the corner store stole my tater tots again, and then I went to-”

“He’s an idiot,” Bucky supplies.

Natasha arches an eyebrow over Clint’s shoulder and then graciously accepts the drink the waitress passes to her. There’s a long moment of judgemental stares - Clint can’t see Bucky’s face, but he can almost feel the chill from his stare on his skin - and for a second he thinks there’s going to be a fight.

Natasha sits back in her chair though, folds her legs neatly and then smirks. “He _is_ an idiot,” she agrees.

“Cute, though,” Bucky says.

“I suppose. If you’re into that kind of thing,” Natasha counters with an elegant-looking shrug. “This is serious, then?”

Is it serious? Clint’s been _hoping_ , but he’s not entirely sure what goes on inside Bucky’s head. Would Bucky be agreeing to this if it wasn’t serious, though? He doesn’t know what real dating looks like, his own history is absolute shit. Clint’s having a mild crisis right in the middle of this coffeeshop. Why did he waste his favour from Bucky on this again?

“I’m keeping him,” Bucky says decisively, tightens his grip enough that it digs into a few lingering bruises on Clint’s stomach, and immediately he relaxes. “If he doesn’t get himself killed eating all those potato things.”

“Baby, I will absolutely eat a salad for you. Just one, though, the tater tots aren't going anywhere,” Clint informs him, and Bucky snorts.

“I like him,” Natasha says, and Clint really has to agree with her on this one.

**Author's Note:**

> Title Song: [Teeth - 5 Seconds of Summer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JWeJHN5P-E8) (Warning for flashing lights)  
> I know my song choices are normally more obscure but this slaps. I'm not sorry.


End file.
